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Thursday, July 28, 2011

Aaaah! It's here!! It's Blogopolis this weekend!!! Must have more exclamation marks!!!!!

Now this post has gone live on Thursday night (but FlogYoBlog Thursday doesn't have the same ring to it) because I'm about to leave for the airport to go to Melbourne for a fun filled weekend.

I'm pumped and ready to go, but I'm not guaranteeing I'll stay that way because I don't normally sleep on planes and don't have any proper warm jackets... so I might be tired, cold and cranky by the time I get there.

If you're going to be there, please come and say hi to me, I don't bite but I do give great Glow Jobs (is that trending yet, Tweeps?). If you don't know which one I am, look for the two girls drunkenly singing Sound of Music songs at the after party and I'll be one of them.

If you're not attending and are a little bit sick of hearing about it all, then scroll down and start Flogging!

Wednesday, July 27, 2011

I haven't been sleeping. For about a week now I've managed to get only two - three hours a night thanks to my brain refusing to shut up. So when I couldn't sleep I wrote...

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

It's 11:22pm and I have to be up in six hours. But I can't sleep. My mind will not be quiet, my muscles will not relax.

The anxiety burns inside my chest and I lean over to Map Guy and tell him "My heart hurts". He knows what I mean.

He snuggles me close and offers words of comfort, asks me what I'm anxious about.

I rattle off a few things, most of which revolve around going to Blogopolis. I'm not anxious about meeting people this time (well not much), I'm losing sleep over the 3000 little things I need to do before Thursday. But the big one, the thought that has created a two week tension headache, is whether Tricky will wean while I'm away.

It's so late by the time I finish talking, only a few minutes later, he's fast asleep. Bastard. I wish I could slip away in to dreamland that easily.

At the moment Tricky and I have our special milky cuddles twice a day. My bookend baby takes relatively little milk, but what he gets instead is attentive, (mostly) quiet bonding time. Just he and I, our bodies warm against each other, drinking in each other's scent.

Chubby star fish hands grab all over me (Where's Mama's nose, Tricky?) and clench my shirt as if he's holding on for dear life. He'll look up at me and smile, giggle, then bury himself back in, not once dropping the nipple.

We've had a pretty good run with the whole breastfeeding caper. We did have some issues early on that saw me noticeably tense with dread when it was time for the next hourly feed. I would grit my teeth and feed him with tears rolling down my face thanks to the stabbing white hot razor blades of a staph infection.

But within a few months it all settled down... and it was something I could do anywhere, any time. Feed him; nurture him; comfort him instantly. It became something I could do well, and over some dark days the thought that I was actually good at something for once, buoyed me.

So how will I feel if my three days away sees him wean, perhaps a bit sooner than he was ready? I'm not sure. I know we've had a great run (almost 14 months) and that anything now is just icing on the cake... but still... still there is the feeling that I'm forcing him.

I apologise in advance to those going to Blogopolis... a lovely hormone shift awaits me and I don't know how I'll handle it.

When did your baby wean from the breast? How did you handle the hormone shift? Or didn't you notice it?

One of my greatest fears is that of the Intervention. I totally know that this has come about from many hours spent watching Oprah while eating toasted cheese sandwiches and drinking diet coke. My friends and I often talk about interventions and we have all promised that we will NEVER do that to each other. We are usually very drunk when we have these conversations.

So fear set into my heart when Mr Woog intervened on some of my behaviours recently.

I have had a stress ball building in the pit of my stomach. Something that is not going away. You know the feeling right? When you have moments of happiness when everything is great, until you remember…… Then you slip back into that dark place.

I have spent all week shutting the door on my problem. And although I can momentarily forget its existence, it is still haunting me. Taunting me. And until Mr Woog held a magnifying glass up to the situation, I thought I was getting away with it. But I knew that the situation was building up to breaking point. It was starting to affect us as a family. My kids were suffering as a result of my behaviour. Standards had slipped below acceptable levels. Some might call it neglect.

So when Mr Woog asked me when I was going face my demons and act, my initial response was to defend myself. “Everyone does it!” I insisted. “It is not a big deal.” I told him I would sort it out tomorrow, or the next day. At least before I go away to Blogher on Monday. I will not leave the problem with him and the kids. After all, I had signed onto this housewife gig and I knew at times it would be lonely. I just did not realise how much I would take for granted. And how abuse can sneak in.

And then I got angry. I blamed him. I pointed out how he had DONE NOTHING to support me during this. That he should step up and BE A MAN. But I knew I had no leg to stand on. That this was MY issue and something I had to fix.

It has been a long morning. I have made progress. Mr Woog has called me to offer some support but he has been firm. I am still resentful of him a bit, but I understand he has good intentions. I need some balance in my life, and at least by the end of the day, I think I might be able to start fresh.

Tomorrow is a brand new day.

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

Mrs Woog is the uber blogger from WoogsWorld. But you knew that already didn't you?

She is mum to two gorgeous boys, wife to a puffer vest wearing man, boss of Sawhole, drinker of Ribena slushies, and enemy of all jeggings wearers. She recently caused Facebook controversy by featuring side boobs and shiny vaginas. OH THE HUMANITY!

Next week she is off to BlogHer and I am supremely jealous and will live vicariously through her Tweets.

After this intervention she can be found in the laundry dutifully folding. It's also where she's hidden her vodka.

Tuesday, July 26, 2011

We are living in a Digital World and I am a Digital Girl. Are you singing now? I am.

The other day, as I sat writing a blog post with one hand on the iPad and the other cradling Mr Cranky Pants my darling boy, I marvelled at our Digital Age. Or iAge. Whatever.

It got me thinking just how much we rely on technology to help us parent, or more specifically, to stay sane as we parent. I am an iParent. I was going to say Digital Parent, but it's obvious I'm one of those, I've got the button in my sidebar to prove it.

So let's do a little comparison, shall we? iParenting vs Back In My Day (well actually my mum's day, but it doesn't have the same ring to it)...

iParenting: Vibrating rockers and swings will lull your spawn to sleep so you can do more important things, like play on TwitterBack In My Day: Rock your own damn child. You're lucky to even have a cot that isn't a death trap

iParenting: Buy some book apps and record yourself reading a story ONCE. Your child can now play it ad nauseum without you having to look away from Neighbours or put down your tequilaBack In My Day: You will read See Spot Run, complete with character voices, until you are ready to give Sally and Sam the big green needle

No drooling on the iPad

iParenting: Let Walt Disney do the hard work on a long trip by whacking in a DVD or two in your air conditioned 4x4 Range Rover SportBack In My Day: You play number plate spotto til you reach 100 or Punch Buggy until someone is bruised and/or bleeding on the back seat of the orange and tan Datsun Stanza with no aircon and broken windows that don't roll down

iParenting: Shove an iPhone in to their tiny little hands with some animal noise app and let the little suckers learn about farm life while you Skype with your buddies. When they become bored and irritable (irritating?) threaten them with "I will stop your download if you don't behave!"Back In My Day: Visit an actual farm and vainly attempt to stop your child stepping in sheep poo. Then scold the child when he runs around chasing his sister with the poo-shoe. When they're both exhausted battle to get them in the car with threats of "We won't go to the video store if you don't behave!"

OK so it's an exaggerated comparison, but you get what I mean.

Do you iParent? What 21st Century tools do you use to make the job easier?

Monday, July 25, 2011

Tricky has a BFF. His big, furry brother, Sprocket and he are joined at the hip.

Tricky shares his food with Sprocket and Sprocket thanks him by licking his fingers or knocking him over with his massive tail. Naw, love.

Sprocket has always been an outside dog who is occasionally let in if the weather is extreme. But since Tricky came along, he's been inside more and more often, so that the two can play together. Yes, I'm a sap.

So now with him being inside more frequently, it means I have to wash him more often.

Which is where Pure Animal Wellbeing comes in. Who are they? Well they're the animal health division of Blackmores. Before trying their products I already like them... because I like acronyms. PAW. Clever. Yes, I'm easily pleased.

Their lovely PR people sent me some lavender and jojoba conditioning shampoo for Sprocket to try. This stuff smells so divine that I could use it on myself and nobody would know I had used dog shampoo... except I would start barking and sniffing crotches. But hey, at least my coat would be shiny.

What did Sprocket think of it? Well, judge for yourself:

Sad, but lovely smelling Sprocket

Hrmmm. Not a happy chappy is he? See, he much prefers to smell like crap. As evidenced by the fact that he immediately went and rolled in all sorts of mess mere minutes after I washed him. But I will win this battle and I will keep washing him with lovely smelling stuff. Mark my words, Sprocket, you will smell like a field of lavender!

To be honest I was expecting to think it was nice but that I wouldn't buy it again because surely something like this would be expensive, right? But it's only $14.95 so it's definitely within my tightass frugal budget.

After a bath he tends to give me the evil eye (for taking away his fabulous, hard worked for musty scent no doubt) so I had to do some quick bribing to make him love me again. So I gave him some Active Pet Chews and he woofed them down. Hehe woofed. Unlike the shampoo I wasn't tempted to try these myself.

He went rather insane over the Chews and would have had the entire pack if I'd let him... especially since I didn't tell him they're healthy and full of vitamins. Or does that only work on getting kids to eat healthy?

He's definitely a food focused dog, check out how he can ignore his bestie in the background when faced with the possibility of getting one:

Must. Not. Break. Eye. Contact.

And how sad he looked later that day when I say he can't have it, but just has to sit there and be photographed with it:

And because I'm a sucker I let him have another one... then watched him lick the floor to make sure he got every last bit:

I have an entire PAW goody pack to giveaway thanks to Pure Animal Wellness. It contains everything you need to keep your dog or cat in top shape including:

For an extra entry you can tweet about this giveaway then leave a separate comment with the link to it

All entrants get a high five from Sprocket!

Entry is open to Australian residents only. Entries close at 10pm AEST on Monday 8th August 2011 at which time a winner will be chosen using a random number generator. Make sure you sign in to the comment platform with a valid email address/twitter handle or leave your details as part of your comment so you can be contacted. Winner has one week to reply to notification, failing that, the prize will be redrawn. The prize is provided by Keep Left PR and PAW and is not transferable.

Friday, July 22, 2011

In the blue corner we have Jennifer McManus. She's 160cm tall, weighs 75kg (but she'll tell you she weighs 69kg), can bench press a toddler, and cook a gourmet meal of beans on toast for a family of four while holding her screaming two month old baby. Jennifer holds the title for most bargains found in one day and this is her third year contesting the Toy Sale Smackdown.

Jennifer plans to use the time honoured tactic of dropping the toddler at the grandparents' and babywearing during the sales so she can keep her hands free to grab bargains. It comes with the added bonus of most other Smackdown participants giving her a "baby buffer zone".

In the red corner we have Monica Bradman. At 165cm tall and weighing in at 82kg (but she'll swear 10kg of that is fluid at this time of the month), she has the upper hand being able to bench press twin toddlers and break up fights between her tweens. Monica is the reigning Trolley Wielding World Champion and is our most experienced competitor today, in her 11th year of Toy Sale Smackdown.

Monica's plan of attack is to use one of her tweens so they can infiltrate the aisles from two sides and she will rely heavily on her superior trolley skills to block other bargain hunters and if need be, ram their heels.

And then in the multicoloured couch corner with a few scatter cushions is Glowless. She's 169cm tall and weighs 70kg (though we all know that's a big fat lie). She's a newbie in the Smackdown but has used the power of her laptop to come in and is a real threat to claim the title.

Her plan is to jump online (the only jumping she does) and head to the Target Toy Sale where she can browse through the hundreds of discounted toys, cup of tea in hand, and leisurely pick and choose and start her Early Bird Lay-By online! No fighting children, no trolleys up heels, no scuffle for the last Lightning McQueen and no having to bribe tweens with promises of junk food. She even plans to do it with her trademark unbrushed hair and in her normal uniform of PJs.

Remember ladies, there's no such thing as a nice, clean fight!

DING DING!

Who will win??? What are your weapons of choice for the Toy Sale Smackdown?

This week the News Of The World scandal has been beamed live to lounge rooms everywhere. Or in my case, beamed live to my Twitter stream.

There has been one thing about the whole sorry saga that has disappointed me more than anything else...

The pie was made of FOAM and not CREAM! This is a travesty!

If one must suffer the humiliation of pie-in-face then the pie-r must be considerate enough to make it with cream so the pie-ee can lick his chops. All Mr Richy Pants Rupert can taste right now is a lovely cocktail of chemical gunk and artificial fragrance (have you ever accidentally tasted pefume? Ick).

I like my humiliation to taste sweet, sort of like humble pie which is fine and dandy when made from apples and served with custard.

And let's not forget to give massive kudos go to Mrs Richy Rich Wendi Deng for her right hook.

And now let's all sing along in a rousing rendition of 'Stand By Your Man' and get to Flogging!

Thursday, July 21, 2011

I did a product survey yesterday. I do a lot of them. I'm not talking about the cool Bloggy things, I mean the focus group type surveys.

Aunty Penny works in marketing so whenever these things come around in my inbox I think about how some poor schmuck has gone to so much effort to put this survey together, and I feel a bit sorry for them. What if no one fills out their survey? What if they get fired because of that? It would be my fault, since the world revolves around me and all. So I take a few minutes to fill it out.

I also do the phone surveys that "only take two minutes" that actually take ten minutes. You can look me up in the phonebook under "Sucker".

Though telemarketers are a different story; I'm never ever rude to them, since I was one, but dude, do NOT call me during dinner and then get huffy when I say no thank you. That is a one way ticket to phone slammage. It's a word, trust me.

But I digress.

Yesterday's survey was about a new shower gel. It asked me how exciting the product was.

Um, excuse me? Exciting? No. It's shower gel. I don't get in the shower, turn to see my shower gel then shout out whoopeeeeeee just because I've seen that it's some new organic crap in a fancy pants recycled hemp bottle with added essential oils. It's just shower gel.

So, marketing gurus, take note; here, for your benefit is the list of questions and answers I would like to see you ask about your brand spanking new product the next time I get your survey:

1. Based on our carefully worded spiel and fancy air brushed pictures of the new shower gel, are you:
a) Very impressed
b) Slightly impressed
c) Not very impressed
d) Dude, it's shower gel. Put an elephant in the bottle and then I'll be impressed.

Why elephant? I dunno, sounded good in my head

2. Based on the lovely description but complete lack of price details, how likely are you to purchase this amazing new shower gel when you're next at the shops?:
a) Very likely
b) Somewhat likely
c) Unlikely
d) Dude, it's shower gel. If I've run out, it's on special and cheaper than everything else I will buy it.

3. Which of these phrases describes how new and different you think this product is compared to what is available?
a) Extremely new and different
b) Somewhat new and different
c) Not very new and different
d) Dude, it's shower gel, it's not new or different at all. A funny shaped bottle doesn't make you cool.

Wednesday, July 20, 2011

I have no children. That’s right. Usually when I tell people this, they give me a sad little look and ask “Oh, you don’t like kids?” or “Oh, you accidentally boiled your sperm in a spa during a drunken key party?” Well, no. (And yes.) The actual reason I have no kids is because I have an elderly dog that’s closing in on 17 years of age, and let me tell you, that’s as near to a newborn child as I have the patience to be.

The similarities between the two are closer than you’d think. A fact I wasn’t aware of until I recently went to lunch with a friend who brought along her 1 year old. Granted, this child was probably the most well behaved child I’d ever seen, so this is probably not the greatest comparison in the world as my dog is more difficult than trying to enjoy Channel Ten’s primetime line-up.

He throws up his dinner at least 3 times a week, he has a weak bladder so he pees on my bed on a daily basis, and pretty much anywhere else he can hover his little doodle over. He leaves his little turdies all over the floor so you’ve gotta keep your eyes peeled at all times in case you tread on a chunk and leave brown Chuck Taylor prints all through the house. He wakes me up in the middle of the night with his crying because he can’t get comfortable on his bed, or he’s too cold, or he’s hungry, so I have to drag my lazy ass out of bed to tend to his every need. Then when I’ve finished making him happy he just goes right back to sleep while I sit there looking resentfully at him in the dark, entirely jealous of the fact that because he’s blind and deaf he can just block out the world around him and drop like a rock.

Once, I’m almost positive I saw him half smile at me when I tucked him back in bed, as if he has me wrapped around his little claw. Maybe I should start peeing in his shoes and stepping on his face at 2am, just to reaffirm with him who’s really in charge here.

I often wonder if maybe it’d be easier to have a child? At least you can dump them at school for 7 hours a day and send them off to sleepovers or sport training. I’m assuming that’s all there is to it...

Tuesday, July 19, 2011

On Friday, at 4:35pm to be exact, I did something strange. I decided to voluntarily turn off Facebook and Twitter with the aim to have a social media free weekend. A self imposed exile, until Sunday 8:00pm.

I had no idea if I would be able to do it or not (and no idea why I wanted to try). The odds were against me, especially considering I dropped my phone in a puddle that afternoon so didn't even have access to text messages to distract me. Though it did mean I couldn't cheat, but that's a pretty crap silver lining if you ask me.

I had my own set of rules:

No Facebook

No Twitter

Email was allowed (I was waiting on very important stuff!)

I could read blog posts, but only in bed if I couldn't sleep (which is why there is extreme lack of comments on this week's FYBF linky-ers, sorry!)

My first hurdle was within seconds - someone added my name to a Facebook group a few minutes earlier and the email notifications started pouring in every time someone commented or left a message on the wall. That and the endless notifications from everyone making bets on the Where's My Glow? Facebook page on how long I'd last (consensus was one hour).

So I did sorta cheat and went in quickly to turn off notifications... because what's the point in saying I was going to be away from it, if I was aware of everything happening anyway?

From then on, I expected it to be hard. I have TweetDeck open pretty much from the moment I wake up to minute I fall asleep. I'm always checking it - not necessarily tweeting, but just checking out what other people are saying. It's my voyeuristic streak coming out.

Anyone else annoyed that he says Twitter about it, not Tweet about it?

But being away from it all for a whole weekend? Well I imagined coming away with a sense of peace, a greater understanding of family time, or having some profound insight in to my incessant need to seek instant gratification...

But instead, I slept in, played with Tricky, went for a big walk with my boys (husband, child, dog), had afternoon tea at my parents house, did the dishes, some laundry... you know, just stuff. Nothing important or earth shattering... an honestly nothing that I wouldn't have achieved if I'd not been in exile, it just would have taken me a little bit longer.

It was rather anticlimactic.

My downfall came some time on Sunday afternoon when I was doing some blog work and voted for a website as part of the Ausmumpreneur Awards people's choice award (you should vote for it too!)... I hit the Facebook 'like' button as well as the special voting 'like' button, mainly because I fail at following instructions, and it posted to my personal profile.

Two people commented on it, saying they were impressed I had lasted so long... and I felt jipped. I wanted to jump up and down proclaiming my innocence! I hadn't actually been on Facebook, just clicked a button on a website. I was so obsessed with lasting the whole time that I actually cared that someone thought I had failed. Could I be any more pathetic?

So yes, it was weird to not just jump on Twitter and Facebook and update my minions followers about my every move, but I did it and, shock horror, I might just do it again.

Oh and for the record, the biggest problem was going back on to TweetDeck and finding 1000 @mentions that I wasn't sure if I should still reply to or not.

Are you a social media addict? How long would you last in self imposed exile?

Monday, July 18, 2011

Well, after a bit of emailing, a coffee at a local cafe, and a bit more emailing I'm happy to announce that Piccolo Innovations have come on board as my Blogopolis sponsor!

Piccolo Innovations is a new WA based company run by Morna Frankowiak. This woman is amazing.

Morna is a single mum of two teenage boys, works full time and is now running her own business. And if that's not busy enough, she wasn't entirely fulfilled with her work so she's also just about to complete her degree in nursing for a mid-life career change!

To fit everything she does in to one day I'd need a nanny, a cook, a cleaner, a personal assistant and a chauffeur.

The product that has just been launched is the European influenced, Australian designed Boomer Highchair. A funky chair that grows with your child. Tricky has been putting it through it's paces for the last week and there will be a proper review very shortly, but I can tell you now, it rocks (not physically, it's very secure!).

For now I want to say a massive WELCOME to Piccolo Innovations! I'd love it if you could check out their great products at their website and like them on Facebook, just to show some support to the people who support Bloggers!

Sunday, July 17, 2011

This is a sponsored post. Writing it gets me on a plane to Melbourne for Blogopolis.

I had my first cigarette when I was 14. I thought I was so cool, sitting alone at the bus stop before school, having half a puff of the mildest cigarette ever made and coughing my severely asthmatic lungs up to the point where my eyes watered. It doesn't get much cooler than that, right? How were the boys not falling over themselves to get to me?

Afraid my dirty little secret would be found out, I would shove an entire packet of mints in my mouth and douse myself with deodorant just as the bus pulled up. Instead of smelling like a stinky ashtray, I smelled like a stinky ashtray dipped in mint and berries. My apologies to the bus driver, who nearly choked one morning after a particularly thorough dousing.

I didn't really touch them again until I was 18, when I became a Friday night Fag Hag (smoking an entire packet on the one and only night a week that you smoke) and I only graduated to full blown smoker when I went through a bit of a crisis. Or rather, crises.

Like many youngens, I wasn't concerned with the health effects. Which is really surprising since it was my constant whingeing and nagging insistence that got my grandmother to quit many years prior. Oh how the mighty did fall.

At the time I didn't really care about the cost either. When I look back at it now and see how much money I wasted (about $8000 over four years) I cringe. Do you know how many shoes, handbags and iThings that could buy???

Apparently there are many levels of addiction, and for some reason or another, nicotine and I were friends, but we weren't inseparable soulmates (I scored a 3 on the nicotine addiction test). So one day, I just decided to quit... though having a hunky new anti-smoking boyfriend may have had something to do with it. I still had a pack in the cupboard and I didn't touch them. Didn't want to touch them.

Apparently my Dad did it the exact same way. Kept a packet in his top pocket to prove to himself he could resist temptation. Freak.

I do find myself flirting with my old nicotine friend from time to time, normally when I'm having a few loud quiet ones with other smokers, but I'm lucky that for me, it doesn't mean being dragged back in to that expensive habit... just a stern reprimand from Map Guy (who was the hunky new boyfriend).

If you'd like to find out the benefits of quitting smoking, how much money you're wasting, and some tools to help you quit, visit http://www.doortoquitting.com.au. Maybe I should too so I can kick the habit once and for all.

Friday, July 15, 2011

If you've been living under a rock you might not know that the final Harry Potter movie has just been released. You also may now have a sore back from living under said rock.

Now I confess to not having a clue about anything Potter-y (or pottery for that matter). I have not read any of the books and have only seen the first two movies, and only then because I was outnumbered in a vote.

In the second one there is a scene with a bajillion spiders and I almost crapped myself and swore I'd never see another one and no amount of smarmy girl wizard, annoying tag along wizard and visually impaired wizard shenanigans could lure me back... yet strangely I wanna know what happens in the end.

So in order to comment on the movie, I will go with what I do know: Hermoine is a fox.

Who could've known at that very first casting photo that those children would grow up to be so hot. Well, you know, all except the g*nger kid. And I use the asterisk because Tim Minchin told me too.

Now you all go Flog while I brace myself for the Potterists to come and flog me for saying that.

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Five little ducks went out one day,In to the bottom kitchen drawer to play,Mother Duck said "Quack quack quack" (which loosely translated means "watch your fingers")And only four little ducks came back...

Yesterday morning, as I was getting Tricky's breakfast ready, he was playing with the bottom kitchen drawer about half a step away from me.

It's his drawer. Only his stuff goes in there and he's allowed to play with it. He'll sometimes touch the other drawers but after being told "no" he'll generally leave it alone, and go back to his drawer.

Yesterday was no different. Except as he went to close the drawer, he slipped and fell over.

Didn't make a sound. So I said "Oops, you fell over! Up you get, time for breakfast"

Then he started screaming.

I figured he must have bopped his head as he fell and was doing one of those delayed reaction cries. You know the ones where it's been a good five seconds since they've injured themselves and you can see the little cogs in their head turning. Does this hurt? Should I cry? Yeah I will. Waah! So I scooped him up for a cuddle and saw a little bit of blood on the floor.

I checked his mouth. He's put his tooth through his lip or gum before after a fall, but there didn't seem to be anything there. I looked down at his hand...

Blood everywhere.

I could see it was coming from his finger, but there was just so much blood I couldn't see how bad it was.

"Oh fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck have you cut your finger off?" Because dropping the F bomb to a one year old is fine in these situations.

I'm not entirely sure why I asked him. I didn't exactly expect him to look up and answer me.

I tried to blot away the blood with a tissue but it wasn't doing any good so I ran his finger under the tap. He went quiet. I think he liked the cold. I could see through the water that a big chunk of skin was missing.

After quickly getting dressed while my Mum (who was almost at my house already when it happened) held him, we jumped in the car and raced to the doctors.

We asked if we could see the nurse.

"You can't see the nurse without seeing the doctor"

We asked if we could see a doctor.

"Do you have an appointment? They're fully booked."

Are you fucking kidding me? Do you think I have an appointment? Meanwhile my child's hand is dripping with blood.

But I kept it all inside and instead said "No, I don't, he's just cut his finger a few minutes ago"

"Well he doesn't look too distressed"

What?! Can we focus for a second on the blood pouring out his frickin finger? Maybe he was in shock, I dunno, I'm not a medico and neither was she. Being a receptionist at a medical centre doesn't actually qualify you to triage.

So we waited almost an hour to see the doctor. My Mum and I took turns holding him, and holding his hand up and his thumb away. He wanted to touch his finger and each time he did it, it would pour with blood. We could see it wasn't a bad injury by now, but like all finger wounds, it would not. stop. bleeding.

I was anxious that the doctor would tell me off. Tell me I should have been supervising him more carefully, that I shouldn't let him play with the drawer. But instead, he introduced himself to me, asked what had happened then told me how his own son, at age 23, has just run his car up the back of a Mercedes, assuring me that "it doesn't stop as they get older, you'll have to get used to this".

The doctor put on those big magnifying goggles and had a look. The giant flap of skin was still partially attached so he unrolled it (ick), smoothed it down, and put a bandage on it.

All the while Tricky just sat there, hand outstretched, staring at the doctor. No screaming, even when he was unrolling the skin. Then when it was time to go he turned around and waved to the doctor. He bloody waved! The child is a champion.

Wednesday, July 13, 2011

When I delivered my first darling girl when
I was in my late 30s, I experienced a rather unusual encounter with a lactation
consultant. Fortunately, I was mature enough to not get completely freaked
out by deal with the situation, and it left me with a very good “She did
what?” story to tell.

But I often wonder what would have happened
had I been a much younger new mum, and the trauma that this encounter would
have left me in.

In hospital, it did not take me long to
realise that mid-wives are a bit thingy about c-sections. So within the first
24 hours after delivering Darling No.1 I had been asked dozens of times why I
had a c-section, even when the mid-wife was looking at the large scar on my
spine from multiple back surgeries.

I also knew enough about having a c-section
to know that sometimes it takes a little while for your milk to come in. So
while Darling No.1 was screaming her lungs out, I was trying to calmly will my
milk to arrive. Meanwhile, none of the mid-wives were offering any help in the
way of a bottle, which apparently is just as bad as a c-section.

I cannot recall what day we were up to when
I began to sense that there wasn’t a lot happening and I was getting just a tad
bit worried. I suggested to Mr Fussy, a farmer, that perhaps I needed to ask a
mid-wife about some formula to help calm the escalating situation. His reply to
this was, “No! I’ve seen what happens to the lambs that don’t get their
mother’s colostrums!”

So now I had a screaming newborn, an
irrational husband and a guilty complex.

A mid-wife asked if I would like to see the
visiting lactation consultant. We said yes, and she arrived later that day.

She was a tiny woman with only a whisper of
a voice. She was the type of woman who stands in your personal space. I scooped
up Darling No.1 to give myself a buffer. I told her how little milk (if any) was
coming out and that I would like to give the baby a bottle; could someone show
me where to get one?

She blankly stared at me as though I had
just spoken perfect Greek to her. Then a lecture commenced about how it was
possible to breast feed a baby through a “wet nurse”; that we could probably
find one by looking on the bulletin board in the hospital lobby.

I kept looking at Mr Fussy, but he was not
looking concerned.

She then proceeded to tell us that
breastfeeding this way would allow a bond to form between Daddy and baby too,
especially if Daddy took his shirt off and held the baby. Did Daddy want to do
that now?

Alarm! Alarm!

“Sure I’ll hold the baby”, said Mr Fussy as
he wrestled the baby from my arms and totally
missing the shirt bit.

Now defenceless and realising that I was
the only one listening to what was going on, I started to tear up a little.
“Look, I just want to give her some formula to calm her down, so I can calm
down and let my milk come in.”

Again she ignored me and proceeded with telling
me her story. How she had so much
milk for her first baby, but nothing for the second. How she found a wet nurse
and is now BFF with her. Blah, Blah, Blah.

All the while Mr Fussy is happily snuggling
Darling No.1 as I am left standing with this lunatic about 5 inches from my
face. I started to wail. I let the tears fall fast and hard. The baby began to
wail with me and Mr Fussy jumped up in alarm (at last). A very young, hip, cool
mid-wife arrived at my door and asked if I needed any help.

YES! I blurted out that I just wasn’t up to
talking to the lactation consultant anymore and could she please just leave and
don’t come back come back later. I asked if someone could please just
show me where to make up a bottle of formula.

The lactation consultant reluctantly left
and the hip mid-wife and I went in the opposite direction towards the nursery
to get a bottle.

“Do you want to file a complaint?” she
asked quietly. “Yes. Yes, I do!” I replied as I wiped my eyes. “I’m not really
upset” I told her “I just didn’t know how else to get rid of her.” “Good move,”
she replied.

Sometime in the middle of the night I was
woken by Bridget, a rather large Irish mid-wife. It was time for a feed she
told me. In a blurry-eyed daze I got out of bed as she scooped up Darling No.1.
I started to tell her my tale of woe when she interrupted.

“Darling, I’ve heard of yer troubles and
that’s nothing ta worry ‘bout. Let me get the dear bub on ya, just like this,”
she said as she wacked the baby to my breast. Then with her big hand she pumped
my boob (honestly, I was too tired to care). “I use to milk the kittens on the
farm like this when I was a wee lass.” And with that, I swear, my milk came in.

I never saw Bridget again. She was an angle
in the night. I filed that complaint though, because I didn’t want another new
mum to be given such poor assistance or advice. At least Mr Fussy had the sense
to keep his shirt on!

___ . . . ___ . . . ___

The Fussy Eater's Mum is the fabulous woman behind Life With A Fussy Eater and creator of HealthyChart, a magnetic incentive chart to encourage healthy eating and exercise habits in kids (and adults!).

She
moved all the way from New York City to the Fussy Farm in rural WA
where she fell in luuuurve and never looked back. She lives on the land,
amongst the sheep, with Mr Fussy (who doesn't know she blogs) and her two Darlings.

She
blogs about food & nutrition, being an Uber Mum (yes, she says
Mum not Mom - she's fully Ausmerican now), the original Fussy Eater and sponsoring awesome bloggers. You can stalk her on Twitter too!

Tuesday, July 12, 2011

Last night I was sitting, numb from the waist down, on a wafer
thin mattress that takes up the entire floor space of my microscopic lounge room.

In my arms, was my sweet little Tricky boy, damp and clammy from too many tears and endless cuddles.

He would only sleep in my arms if I sat up... laying down was not an option

One year in to this caper and I'm still not entirely sure what to do
when he becomes so distressed. He's not really much of a crier (a
whinger though, definitely) and is generally easy to settle; cuddles,
kisses, sometimes a lullaby.

So when he starts screaming with unrivaled intensity and special milky cuddles can't fix it, I feel useless.

I sing louder, pat firmer, jiggle more...and it doesn't help. The crying continues. I am completely and utterly obsolete. It's been almost a year since I've felt quite like this.

In the dark, I add my own salty tears to the mix. Sometimes they're sad, 'I wish I knew how to help you'
tears; sometimes they're 'Mama has had two hours of sleep' tears.

They slowly drop on to his head and for a moment our tears mingle before I wipe them away and apologize.

Apologize for crying; for not being able to help; for not being able to figure out what's wrong and make it all go away.

So I do what I can. I snuggle in and stroke his sweaty brow until he finally calms and falls in to a fitfull sleep in my arms, where he stays, for the next six hours.

He wakes often to cry out and snuggle in even deeper; cling on to me tighter than I can ever remember, before getting up and playing with his blocks like nothing was ever wrong.

How he can have so much energy after so little sleep? I can barely keep my eyes open, even with toothpick props. Today is most definitely going to be a pyjama day.

Monday, July 11, 2011

Recently I went looking for a Tricky sized tshirt with a tie for our Royal Wedding party - just because you're a baby doesn't mean you're exempt from fancy dress parties. I found the cutest little tshirts with colourful funky ties at MeGuy Designs, but alas, it was the day before the party and it takes at least a week to get anything to WA so I had to do a dodgy job of it myself.

But I checked out the rest of the site to see what I could find and ended up ordering two awesome handemade baby toys for my friend who was due to have a baby any minute because I like to support SAHM and WAHM businesses.

I ordered a custom matching Psycho Cube and a Daggy Taggy.

I hear what you're saying, "a psycho what now?". A Psycho Cube, dear readers, an awesome jingly toy with bright fabrics and different textured loops. And a Daggy Taggy is just what it sounds like - a cloth with lots of different textured and coloured tags, great for little fingers to grab hold of.

Mrs MeGuy stocks a wide variety of funky fabrics to choose from (she even has The Hungry Little Caterpillar and Dr Seuss material!) or you can give her creative freedom like I did - I asked for something that didn't look like a fairy had thrown up on it, but would appease my friend's need to have everything 'girly'. I think she did a brilliant job!

Disclaimer: I ordered and paid for my MeGuy Design products myself, no compensation was offered or accepted for this review. I chose to review it in order to promote an Australian SAHM/WAHM business. All opinions are my own.